Rowan dreamed of finding the seven Unity Koro and ruling all of Althoria. But first, he had to get his hands on that honey bun. Right now, destiny could wait. The last pastry at the Harvest Festival was calling, and Rowan wasn’t about to miss out. He tore down the hill, the wind chasing him like a jealous rival, while the wheat fields thundered in golden applause. From the top of the hill to the valley below, the town of Zyranth bloomed with color and sound. Ribbons in every shade fluttered from the rooftops. Painted banners swayed across the cobblestone

When Rowan was four, the world seemed endless and full of magic. Golden fields stretched far beyond the village. The cottages, with mossy roofs and sturdy beams, stood close together like little mountains guarding their people. And above it all, the sky was endless and blue, a dreamy canvas that felt big enough to hold every wish Rowan could imagine. That evening, the wind carried a secret. It whispered across the hilltop as if trying to speak in a language only the heart could hear. Rowan stood barefoot in the tall grass, the blades brushing against his knees as the

Rowan hit the ground hard. His knees buckled, and he rolled to his side. His breathing came in sharp bursts, each one shaky and uneven. The heavy and strange silence rang in his ears. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hand quivering as he raised it into the soft light, unsure of what he might find. Rowan glanced around the crater, but the Windkoro had vanished. He went to dust off his sleeve, but stopped short when he caught the glow in his palm. There, beneath his skin, a faint swirl of light shimmered softly, like a star trying not

The sun hadn’t actually peeked over the horizon. Still, Rowan was already wide awake, his heart pounding like a festival drum. Today was the day he was finally leaving Zyranth! Unfortunately, his blanket didn’t seem to agree with him. “Gah, let go!” Rowan wriggled and wrestled until he tumbled straight off the bed with a solid thud. “Totally meant to do that,” he grumbled, rubbing the bump on his head. His hair stuck out in every direction, looking as if a lightning bolt had zapped him in his sleep. The floor around him was a battlefield of crumpled shirts, scattered

The creatures shrieked in surprise, their glowing eyes snapping toward Rowan all at once. With a burst of sparks, the firebats shot into the stormy air, screeching as they circled overhead. Mud clung to Rowan’s boots, each step heavy and slippery. He slipped once, arms flailing, then caught himself and slid down the hill like a runaway cart. The rain fell heavily, blurring the world, but Rowan kept his eyes fixed on the boy tied up below. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird inside his ribs. He threw his arm out, shouting, “Wind, GO!” A tiny puff drifted from

The heavy wooden door groaned as it creaked open, its rusty hinges whining like a tired flute. The sound wandered into the dark beyond, echoing through the silence. Rowan peeked inside first, his fingers clutching the doorframe. Bjorn leaned over Rowan’s shoulder. “You sure this is the place?” Rowan swallowed hard. “Yep. Definitely the place. Well… probably. I think.” Bjorn arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.” Rowan lowered his hood. “We came to find answers. Only one way to get ’em.” Bjorn crossed his arms. “Then you go first. You’re the one with the wind power.”

Rowan and Bjorn followed Sorin into a round dining room nestled within mossy stone walls. Ivy-wrapped scrolls lined the shelves that curved above them like quiet guardians. In the center, a broad wooden table rested beneath a glass skylight glowing with twilight. A wave of scent rolled over them: herbs crackling in oil, mushrooms roasted dark and rich, onions sweetening the air, and golden potatoes carrying a buttery warmth. Rowan’s stomach growled the moment he sat down. Bjorn didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a slice of bread and tore into it, crumbs spraying across the table. “Hey!” Rowan chuckled, reaching for

Bjorn charged down the trail, his boots thudding hard against the dirt. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder. Rowan sprinted after him, lungs burning as the forest blurred past. Morning light scattered through the branches in flashes of gold and green. The path narrowed into twists and dips, forcing them into a single file. Then came another shout. “Was that… a monster?” Rowan called, his voice ragged. Bjorn didn’t answer. He only ran harder, as if chasing the sound. The path dipped suddenly, and the trees gave way to a wide clearing. There, three tall figures circled a more

The woods opened into a marsh that shimmered. Rowan’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Come on! Willowfen has to be close.” Nestled deep in the swamp, Willowfen looked like a secret village the world had hidden away. Wooden cottages rose on stilts above the shallow waters, their dark marshwood mirrored in the still pools below. Rope bridges stretched between them in tangled paths. Rowan stepped onto a patch of moss that looked solid until it gave way beneath him with a wet squish. “Careful,” Bjorn said, grinning as Rowan flailed. “That stuff’s trickier than it looks.” “Yeah, thanks for the warning,”

Rowan and Bjorn pressed deeper into the strange forest, each step carrying them farther from anything familiar.  “This doesn’t feel like the same forest anymore,” Rowan whispered. “It’s like… a dream that forgot how to wake up.” Bjorn didn’t answer. His hand hovered near the handle of his axe, scanning the shadows between the trunks. Then, something quick and dark slid between the trees as if it belonged to the forest. Rowan stood motionless, except for his hands, which had a slight shake. “Did you see that?”  Bjorn squinted into the hazy fog, but didn’t see anything. Unsure of what

The cottage door creaked shut behind them, and inside, every corner brimmed with curious treasures: shelves lined with glass bottles that shimmered green, gold, and blue; bundles of feathers tied in careful cords; and heavy old books stacked high like sleeping beasts. A kettle hissed softly on the fireplace, filling the room with steam, but no one bothered to move it. The man stepped forward, his gray cloak trailing across the wooden floor. He stood with his back slightly bent, but he carried himself with quiet strength. The fire flickered, illuminating the lines of his face, showing a jagged scar

A single lantern dangled from a crooked post beside the cottage, squeaking each time the breeze stirred. One of its glass panes chipped, but the wick inside had been waiting for someone to wake it. Bjorn reached up and unhooked the lantern. A sticky cobweb stretched across the handle, clinging stubbornly until he brushed it away with the back of his hand. “Let’s see if you’re still alive,” he muttered. He crouched beside a flat stone and set the lantern down. From his pocket, he pulled out a piece of flint and pressed it against the back of his axe.

Bjorn’s shoulders tensed as his grip tightened around the handle of his axe. He knew that crooked grin, the floppy feathered hat, and that slouched stance. “The Banditleaf Trio,” Bjorn muttered, planting his boots firmly in the damp earth. “Guess I didn’t hit you hard enough last time.” The leader, Snatch, strutted forward, his floppy, feathered hat bobbing with every step. A chipped sword swung lazily from his belt, dangling backward as though it hardly mattered. From his boot trailed a green vine, snagging in the grass like a pet tugging at its leash. “Yes!” Snatch cried, flinging his arm